


The Flip of a Coin

by andyandj



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Multi, Rating For Future Content, Spooky Mystery, Vigenère, cryptograms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-20 11:48:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8247679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andyandj/pseuds/andyandj
Summary: In the year 201X, an 18 year old Stanley Pines breaks his brother Stanford's ticket to the school of his dreams. Stan gets thrown out by their hateful father, but Ford works his tail off and sends out enough pleading emails to get a second chance at getting into West Coast Technical College - and succeeds. Three and a half years later, in the midst of some suspicious disappearances around campus, a familiar face turns up in Ford's life, and he tries his best to not ruin everything for a second time.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford attempts to order lunch.

'How am I even supposed to respond… to _any_ of this…?'

There are eight blank lines on the piece of paper in Ford's hands following the question _where are you from_?  
  
'I can't just write New Jersey and leave seven and three quarters lines empty.' Ford's frown deepened as he incredulously flipped through the four – ' _FOUR,_ ' page packet. 'Glass Shard Beach, New Jersey would still leave seven and two fifths…'

In a feat of patience, Ford tries to calmly remind himself that this assignment absolutely does not matter. It's for a general education course (one of the few his AP credits from high school had no bearing on, unfortunately). It's worth one tenth of ten participation points in his 100 point grade. 'One point. She wants me to write four pages of banal essays about my childhood for _one point_.' Ford sighs weakly, knowing that as much as he hates this, he has to finish it, regardless of how few fractions of a point his answers are worth.

He'd rather never look at it again, let alone consider sharing his answers – Ford swallows, nervously – _with the class_ , but even briefly entertaining the idea brings to mind a frantic, irrational narrative of it being the first step to his academic ruin – he'd fumble his first impression on the professor, who would then never allow him to list her as a reference for a senior TA position or work study opportunities. Or maybe she'd conveniently never be in her office when he needed her approval to be over ridden into a class in the department of which she's (unfortunately) the assistant professor.

Ford stretches his arms over his head, growing increasingly uncomfortable on the bench outside West Coast Tech's University Center. Turning around to work on stretching out his back, he mumbles to himself softly, somewhat spitefully, “Three years, and they're still making us do these stupid things… seniors should be exempt...”  
  
At some point, Ford realizes his eyes have glazed over, staring at the question in question with no intent or desire to fill in the other seven and three quarters lines, and tries to direct his attention to the next page. 'This is a freshman level course – the professor _has_ to be aware of how pointless the assignment is. The next class is probably going to begin with a lecture on why it's important to come to class even if you don't want to, to do your independent coursework even if it doesn't feel important.' Ford rolls his eyes to himself with a bit of a flutter. 'As if someone interviewing with _eight_ graduate programs in the next twelve months needs to be reminded. It's not as if she'll investigate any student's answers in a lecture hall class of at least 120… I can write whatever I want. This _isn't_ difficult.'  
  
Page 3 of the _Introduction to Psychology Introductory Handout_ begins with additional blank lines for the last question of the previous page, _what's your greatest weakness,_ followed by the question, _what's something unique about you?_  
  
Putting a pin in this and coming back to it later would probably be for the best, he decides. There's only so much moody stewing to be done in one day. "Mh. Maybe coffee...?"

Ford isn't really the going out for coffee type, or rather, he hadn't been before college. There's a coffee maker at the place he calls home at the moment – an apartment he rents with Fiddleford, his colleague whom he supposes he would technically have to describe as his best friend. It's hardly more than ten blocks away by foot, a mere three and a half minute bus ride, traffic allowing. There's a TA's lounge on campus he has access to with a free pod coffee station that is sometimes remembered by the university's catering staff. 'Hmm... but I might run into Preston...'  
  
After his second or third semester, Ford began to truly appreciate that the purpose of going out for coffee was quite often less about the coffee and more about stepping away from whatever it was you couldn't stand to face at the given moment. There's a coffee shop in the library beside the university center Ford is sitting outside of, '...but the quality is par with, well... piss.' Ford isn't really all that picky about his coffee, but he knows he would feel just as restless and lost in this fog of unpleasantness if the trip and back only cost him a few minutes.  
  
What he needs most is the distraction provided by the trip more so than the coffee. Ford withdraws himself from one of the overly modern library's memorial granite slab benches ('Who memorializes a plain slab of granite? It's not even that much of a bench. It just feels… cult-ish...') and slides the creased assignment he hadn't been working on in the slightest in between the pages of his Methods of Experimental Physics book. As Ford stands and collects his books and papers, his stomach releases an embarrassingly audible gurgle, flustering him slightly despite the lack of anyone to have heard it.

He huffs indignantly at his body's spontaneous decision to betray him and checks his watch. It's a quarter past one, and the sun is contentedly high and warm, despite Ford's choice of a long sleeved cardigan and jeans. A brief wave of panic washes over him, feeling he's missed the beginning of his afternoon class, having been absorbed entirely by the lingering bitterness and anxiety that is wont to take him from time to time, brought on by what was easily at the top of his list of his least enjoyed first week of class introduction type assignments. But after slipping his phone from his pocket and nervously checking his email for the fifth time today, he confirms that his memory was off, and that due to it being the first week of classes, his (just shy of three hour long) physics lab had been canceled, as they had yet to learn anything in the associated lecture class to have a lab over. His stomach makes another rather unfortunate, sort of lopsided rumble.

So there was some time in Ford's schedule and a need for him to fill. He had a lukewarm lunch buried somewhere in his messenger bag, but not being that great of a cook in the first place, his lunch as a concept was losing appeal by the moment (probably also a fair bit of edibility in general). Not to mention –  
  
'No,' Ford scrunches his face up a little, 'I don't have to justify it. Lunch. You're hungry. Get lunch. It's fine. Don't think about it. Just do it.'

 

X

 

Ford has a hard time with not thinking.

This shouldn't surprise him at this point in his life, but it's what he does. He thinks arguably too much sometimes. It's what he was born doing and it's what he was doing now, aggravatedly making his way down the street suspiciously devoid of pedestrians for the time of day. 'Other people must have coursework that isn't infuriating to be doing.' Ford groans, audibly. 

'I don't know why everyone always leads out with that question. _Where are you from_? What made the world decide that was the de facto, universally _polite_ question to ask a person?' Ford doesn't have a particularly hard time uttering the words _New Jersey_. So it wasn'tappropriate to say thatwas the question that bothered him. No, it wasn't quite just that question, it was the question that always comes after Ford says he's from New Jersey.

It goes something like _New Jersey! That's different. How did you get all the way out to California?_  
  
A very unsubtle grimace sets itself on Ford's features, and it would likely disturb passerby, had there been any on this section of sidewalk. ' _How_? I took a bus.' He scoffs in his throat, almost silently. 'No one wants to hear that answer. They want to hear how I let our father throw Stanley out on his ass with nothing but a dufflebag and half a tank of gas in his car. Or, no-… they want to hear how Stanley… sabotaged me, but I pulled myself up and worked hard enough and begged hard enough to get into my dream school regardless.' Ford looked off to the side with bitterness in his eyes, avoiding the gaze of the ghost he was having this conversation with. 'Or… I don't know… whatever version best fits the perfect cross section of interesting but not uncomfortable...'

Absorbed by his thoughts, Ford drags himself down the street vaguely in the direction of his apartment. While he was a great appreciator of routine, there comes a point at which greasy campus food will turn your stomach if it's any time of the year but finals week, and nothing else that Ford felt familiar with sounded good. He had recalled the existence of an establishment a couple of blocks off the path he would normally walk from campus to the apartment he shares with Fiddleford, though he can't remember any of its identifying features besides Fiddleford's undying love of the place and that the name was some shitty pun or joke or something. Ford smirks inwardly – Fiddleford suggests it to him all the time, but for some reason Ford's just never in the mood. Or maybe he just couldn't get past the name. It's one of those trendy places that caters to the hip young college kids as a bistro during day light hours, closes for an hour at five, and then opens at six as a full bar with a menu whittled down to just the usual pub fair.  
  
What made it sound so appetizing at the moment was that Ford wasn't certain where it was. His sense of direction was still developing, he liked to say, and what sounds best right now is something he was going to have to try to actually find. He's been walking for fifteen minutes now, at least, having gone off the path between home and school in one direction and had found no businesses with names that bothered him (or names that bothered him, but not quite enough). It took him twenty-three more minutes of scouring the streets before coming across a large, frosted glass storefront framed with worn brick with a vinyl decal across it reading in a large, block print font the word _PRETEXT_. Ford wrinkled his nose, suddenly feeling this to be a bad idea. It's closer to home than he remembered, and it'd be just as easy to duck out of the next hour's social interactions with the occasionally pushy stranger and waitstaff making conversation he doesn't want made as it would be to just walk the four blocks home and make himself a frozen pizza.  
  
But frozen pizza doesn't sound good, and this would be an interesting conversation point with Fiddleford later, right? They could talk about something that wasn't theoretical physics or mechanical engineering.

 

X

 

'Oh,' Ford looks down at his toes. 'I never remember how not... _confident_ I am about trying new places.' Apparently this place is busiest in the evening and in the mornings for brunch. 2 pm must be the deadest time of the day, as the podium near the door that seems as though it would normally have someone attending it has a well printed sign suggesting guests seat themselves and wait to be served.

'I shouldn't have come without Fiddleford.'

Glancing around the room - it's clearly meant to be lit mostly from white, natural light during the breakfast and brunch hours, to be diffused by the trendily frosted storefront windows. But it's too late for the morning sun and too early for the unconvincingly vintage-styled filament bulbs to have any effect on the brightness of the room, and the space is somewhat dim and yellow, with a thick warmth. The corners and some of the booths are invitingly taken by shadows, and if Ford weren't alone, he imagines he would be pulling Fiddleford along in the direction of one of those darkened booths. They looked like they'd be the kind of place where he would feel like his horrible jokes and their nerdy debates wouldn't draw glares and snickers.

But as comfortable as the booths seem, Ford fears he would be completely passed over by the wait staff. There's plenty of room at the bar, though. The bar lines one of the two longest walls of the main (perhaps only? Ford isn't sure) room, running end to end from just beside the door where Ford walked in to the far wall, and anxious to not be passed over, Ford chooses what seems like the most logical seat to take – four away from the register in the middle of the bar, on the opposite side from the door – near enough that he shouldn't have to flag anyone down to notice that he's waiting to be served, yet far away enough that anyone who went to the register or the door would most likely not expect small talk from him. He doesn't necessarily hate small talk, per se, it's just that his talk tends to be both larger in size and more narrow in scope. Big words excitedly explaining apparently niche concepts. Medium talk, perhaps. Ford takes his seat and carefully pulls a paper menu toward himself.

 

X

 

The person at the register who isn't acknowledging his presence must be someone important, Ford tells himself. She looks at the screen in front of her and twists some of her pale features at a small, spiral bound book on the counter in front of her before letting out an aggressive sigh and tapping away at the screen. She must be doing something managerial which prevents her from enlightening Ford as to what and how he should be ordering. Ford hears the front door close, and the woman looks up to see that it's only a couple of customers who've walked in, and returns her attention to the screen so that she may continue to ignore Ford as well as them.

The woman rubs her forehead and runs a hand through her hair and glances down at her book again, before turning her attention to a fat, white envelope stuck between the touch screen of the register and the receipt printer. She picks it up and looks at the front of it, annoyed, and lets it fall back into place with a sharp _clack_ on the counter before pulling out her phone and tapping away at it for a moment. Her eyes go back to the register.

Ford is not a passive aggressive person.

Ford is not a passive aggressive person, but he's feeling a little anxious about the time he's spent at the counter and the number of times he's read the entire menu, seemingly without the woman noticing his presence. 'Seven.' Ford pulls his phone out of his pocket for the express purpose of clicking the power button, setting it from silent to vibrate and then back to silent, and then clicking the power button a second time. She doesn't react to it. 'Seven isn't even counting the several minutes spent casually perusing various categories without a particular rhythm or method. I've read it a number of times that is _greater than seven._ '

His eyebrows furrow, and he pulls his phone out again, realizing that he had an alert he hadn't actually checked while trying to draw the woman's attention in a way that could only _unfairly_ be described as passive aggressive. Two school emails and a missed call from his dad. Ford tucks the phone away. He doesn't need this right now. 

Every few weeks Filbrick calls Ford, and in the three years he's been in California, Ford has yet to be convinced there's any good reason for him to be doing so. He assumes his mother pushes him to do it. His father makes the obligatory are-you-dead-yet phone calls, and his mother signs and mails out the Christmas and birthday cards with both of their names signed in her hand writing, and the world keeps turning.

He hopes, though, that his mother isn't the one setting the _tone_ for these phone calls.

Despite being family, Filbrick and Ford have always had very few things in common and even fewer to say to one another. Every time he calls, all they have to talk about it is how Ford's mother is doing, how school is going, and how much they both hate Stanley. Ford's mother has really begun to enjoy emojis in the past year (and has thus begun texting him herself), and all Ford can say about school that Filbrick can understand at this point is that he's excelling. And that just leaves…  
  
Ford wiggles uncomfortably on the hard barstool four seats to the right of the woman who he is certain must be willfully refusing to acknowledge his presence. _Hate_. It's… complicated. Frustrating. But he _did_ hate what Stan did, and as a result of that action he also had to hate Stan. How could he not? Stan had ruined everything for him, and he had done so intentionally. The way Ford feels about him now – it's only what makes sense for him to feel.

Ford feels a slight breath of air brush his hair against his forehead, noting that a ceiling fan he can't see must have kicked on somewhere. He needs to cut his hair again. Ford cuts it himself, and the results are hit or miss, but usually presentable enough, probably. He thinks the academically disheveled look suits him, which isn't to say he intentionally does a poor job. It just sometimes turns out appropriate. Sometimes. 

He sighs. He's always had a hard time being satisfied with his appearance. He was always a little more narrow than Stanley. Not necessarily thinner, but for some reason his shoulders just never wanted to fill out the same way. Absentmindedly, he thinks it must be that they used their bodies for different things: Stan for fighting and breaking things and being reckless, and Ford for reading and ruining other people's lives. Ford closes his eyes, squeezing them together, tight, and lets out a sigh. He shouldn't be thinking about this right now. 'Lunch. I was upset about-- I was _attempting_ to order lunch.'

The woman at the register who is turned away from Ford makes a sound of anxious aggression, between a growl and a sigh. She's turned toward the front entrance on the short wall that the bar almost dead ends into, and Ford seems to feel the waves of upset rolling off of her as she picks up the envelope again and storms off to the other end of the bar, nearest the door.  
  
“Don't _you_ tell _me_ to meet YOU outside!”  
  
Ford wants to look over and assess the situation, or at least attempt to catch the eye of literally any other person working here, but the woman's tone flusters him. He stares down at his phone, embarrassed. 'A-ah. She must know this person. I shouldn't interrupt-'  
  
“Well what was the goddamn side door locked for?!”

Ford's breath caught in his throat.  
  
“To keep people like _you_ out of it!” There was a sound as if the woman slapped the man on his chest.

Ford looked up.

“Okay, yeesh! Just keep your friggin' voice down-- goddammit Sue-”  
  
His stomach, or perhaps all of his organs aside from his skin, were melting inside of him, and their quickening approach to a rolling boil presented itself across his face. He fancied briefly that they might foam up and out of his mouth, if that voice like hot gravel weren't coming to him again, from a face that looked like his but wasn't his. His liquified stomach and the rest of his insides must be seeping down his body and into his shoes. His feet feel damp. He was sweating. He's cold.  
  
“Don't you _goddammit_ _Sue_ me! You were supposed to be here hours ago.” The woman has apparently passed the envelope over to the man that absolutely isn't Ford, as he was now shoving it, folded in half, into the back pocket of his visibly worn and loose fitted jeans. He's wearing a heather grey beanie, and his hair seems slightly overgrown, sticking out around his face and from underneath the beanie at weird angles. “Yesterday! You were supposed to-- yesterday, St-”  
  
No.

The man and _Sue_ continued arguing, occasionally shoving at one another (or in the man's case, mostly only miming or threatening to return her actions), and Ford could not breathe. His head felt light. He tried to form words, to make sounds, but when he opened his mouth it was as if all the blood in his head rushed down and out of his veins to join the rest of his organs in his shoes. He'd read about characters in novels having these reactions, opening and closing and opening their mouths again with nothing to say, but Ford always thought it was an exaggeration or a bad description of an action or feeling. Ford felt a slight _squish_ in his shoes and realized he had stood up without really considering a purpose or follow up to the action.  
  
The woman, Sue, turned to him, finally acknowledging his presence, “I'm sorry, sir, I'll get your order in just-”  
  
“Stan?” Ford found his words. The man didn't look at him, and Ford realizes at this point that he's been staring the whole time ever since he had heard that voice, and the man had slowly been angling himself away from him. There was no response. “Stanley.”  
  
Sue turned to the man with a questioning look and then back to Ford, “Sir, I'm-”  
  
“STANLEY PINES.”

The woman smacks Stan on the shoulder, and he flinches not from her but from the sound of Ford's words. Ford's barely containing himself, nearly vibrating with the embarrassment of shouting in a public venue.  
  
Stan looks at him.

Sue starts again, “Sir, I'm sorry, but-”  
  
“ _Stan_ -”

“Christ, Stanford, _what_?” Stan puts a hand to his face to rub his forehead and adjust his beanie. “What do you want from me?”

Ford doesn't know. He wasn't even sure what he was supposed to be saying to him, all he could think to do in the first place was to call out to him and confirm he wasn't just seeing things, but even that he just sort of _did_. Without thinking. Ford's brain buzzed, trying to remember what he was even doing here, where he was, what-  
  
“Sit down,” the words escaped him while he was looking at the floor and not Stanley. “...w-with me.”  
  
The edge lifted itself from Stan's voice. “Stanford...”  
  
He sounded… almost scared? Ford tries to find himself in his thoughts, but it's all just frantic. 'He wants to leave. Of course he does. _I_ ruined his life, why would he-' Stan put one foot behind himself.

“Get… get lunch with me?”

The sound that came from Stan was between a surprised chuckle and a choke, as if what Ford was saying was a cruel joke meant to injure him. Stan offered a dejected and numb sounding joke of his own in return, “Gonna ask me to shack up and have a few kids with you next-?”  
  
“Stanleysitdownandorderfoodrightn-”

Ford was trembling violently.

“Okayokay! Jeez, Stanford, just- not-” Stan sighed, defeated. Turning to Sue, Stan said something Ford couldn't hear, something Sue didn't look pleased about. She made a very incredulous face that was received only by Stan's back as he walked over to Ford and stuck a thumb out in the direction of some of the darkened booths. “Not at the bar, not with... Sue. Booth. You. Now.”  
  
Ford wasn't sure what to do. Does he let Stan lead? If Ford goes first, would Stan Follow? Stan had leaned over the counter to say something else to Sue, and before Ford could ask what was happening, Stan stood up straight again, tapping the counter in a way that Ford thought might be supposed to mean something to Sue, but not him. Ford was somehow still standing, and Stan lightly nudged his shoulder in the direction of a booth. “C'mon.”  
  
Sue didn't seem particularly satisfied with their conversation, and shouted after them something that sounded like a threat involving knowing where Stan lives, but the twins just shuffled numbly towards a booth on the other side of the room despite her.

They settle into one of the high backed, vinyl cushioned booths, and before Ford can really think about it, Sue's already taken his order and left. Ford is looking at her walking away from their table and he genuinely cannot recall a single thing he just said. He can't tell if he can't think or if there are just too many thoughts running through his head for him to grasp any of them. He's staring at the table. 'Stan's waiting for me to say something. Oh _god_. I begged him to get lunch with me, didn't I?' Ford squeezes his eyes shut and anxiously rubs at his temples with one hand. 'I was just so desperate for him to stay-- he must think I have something of dire importance to say-- I can't even _make words happen_.'  
  
Stan shifts in his seat and puts all his weight into the wall the booth is attached to, arms crossing in front of his chest. Ford can't meet his eyes. He just keeps staring down at the table and hears something like a _huff_ from Stan. 'He's going to leave. Say something.'  
  
“Wh-… where did you go?” Ford tried to control his voice to keep it from wavering but immediately regrets it, thinking he sounded severe. He tentatively looks to Stanley's face, and settles at staring at his nose. It's slightly more tan than Ford remembers. “When Pops-”  
  
Stan tilts his head to the side a little and one corner of his mouth turns sharply downward. “Yeah, I'm doing great, how 'bout yourself?”  
  
Ford wants to hit himself, but settles for gripping his knees under the table. “I-Imean-...” Deep breath. Stan's never been one for pleasantries. “Yes, I'm well. How are you, Stanley?”  
  
“Like I said, great.” Stan takes a sip of his drink that Ford only now realizes had been dropped off at the table. “Just...” he sighs, “-fuckin' stellar.”

“Um… do… do you live nearby, Stanley?”  
  
“No.”  
  
Some part of Ford feels an anxious excitement he can't really explain. “Where do you live, then? This state? Somewhere else-”  
  
“Pass.”

Before Ford can take issue, someone sets food down in front of them both, and Stan starts eating without hesitation or comment, as if he'd had this meal and this conversation a hundred times. Ford had apparently ordered some kind of sandwich and fries, but he can't bring himself to eat. He wants to check his phone, to excuse himself to the restroom, to do _anything_ because he just feels like he's made a horrible mistake trying to get Stanley to talk to him.

If Stan notices his discomfort, he's doing nothing to make up for it. “S' how is school?” The question comes from a mouthful of sandwich.

“I'm almost finished with 3 bachelors, and I'm interviewing with a handful of graduate-- Oh, Stan, I-” Ford frames his words with a tone that sounds regrettably like a consolation. “I got into West Coas-!”  
  
Stan swallows his bite and gasps a little dramatically, not at Ford, but for lack of air from struggling to get the food down. “I know.”  
  
Some of Ford's sheepishness falls from him, inquisitive nature taking the reigns instead. “You _know?_ ”

“Yeah?”

“And how is it that you know?”

A little air seems to leave Stan, his gaze shifts off of Ford. “Pops.”

“When?”  
  
Stan rolls his eyes. “Forever ago. I tried calling him a coupl'a times, and all he ever had to say to me was that everything was great without me, he regretted nothing, ma didn't miss me either, and he'd been waiting 19 years for this.” Stan plays with a french fry, flipping it around between his fingers a little, adding candidly, “and to never call him again.”

Ford's eyebrows scrunch up. “We were 18.”  
  
“Yeah. We were.”

Hands folded together and pressed between his knees, Ford stares down into his lap, still ignoring his food completely. “You know… when he threw you out, I hadn't immediately realized that he took your phone too. I...” An explanation worth something fails to find him. “I didn't think about… a-are payphones still, ah... a thing?”  
  
Stan shrugged his shoulders. “I was crashing at a friend's place. I borrowed one.”  
  
“Who-?”  
  
“Pass.”

'Who just _passes_ on answering questions of-- of-- does he have any idea how much emotional distress we could be wading our ways out of if he _would just answer_ _me_ _\--'_ Ford's hands come out from between his knees to get leverage to push himself to sit a little more upright in the seat, and he's frowning. 'I mean, sure, maybe I'm more upset about it than he is. But he's the one that got thrown out! He _needs this!_ H-He-' His mouth opens just a little, angry but doubtful. 'U-unless, I-I mean… maybe this doesn't bother him at all, and he's happier with his life now than before, and there are just no difficult emotions for him to wade out of because he's _already over it because of course he is-'_  
  
“Ford.”  
  
There's a bite to his reply, “W _hat_?”  
  
Stan smirks halfheartedly. “You're doing that thing you do. With your face.”

A very slight blush takes to his cheeks, indignant. “What _about_ my face?”

“That thing, y'know-” Stan laughs in earnest. “You're angry. You're arguing with yourself in your head.”  
  
“Everyone does that!” His voice is raised, defensively.  
  
“You're angry at me.”

Ford falls silent. He doesn't know what to say. Of course he'd been mad at Stanley. He'd _been_ mad for so long. He'd been mad at Stan for what he did, for not owning up to it sooner, for not giving Ford a chance to fix what Stan had done before all of what happened between them went down, for not being remorseful, 'for not being remorseful _enough_?' Then again, he had also been mad at their father for throwing Stan out. He _might_ be mad at Stan for having let their father throwing him out be the end of it.

What else could he have expected, though? Their father was an unmovable man – somehow even more stubborn than either of the twins and not easily impressed. And for what reason would Stan think to _want_ to try to stay after all the things Ford said to him, after what Filbrick did, after what _Stan_ did? Even then, it certainly sounds like Stan tried to accomplish _something_ – what other reason would he have to call Filbrick, of all people? Why would he call _Filbrick_ -

“You... could have called me.”

Stan had been waiting for a reply from Ford for a non-hyperbolic minute, and while he wasn't exactly hoping for an apology (those were scarce enough in the Pines family), he was, to say the least, _upset_ about Ford's assertion.  
  
He scoffed, leaning his weight into his forearm on the table. “Call _you_? How in the hell was I supposed to call you after you said you wanted nothing to do with me?!”

“I didn't say that!”

“You said, and I quote, Stanford, 'why would I want to do anything with the person who sabotaged my entire future' _–_ _your_ future! All you cared about was how I'd screwed it all up for _you._ ”

“Stanley-” Ford sounded hurt. He couldn't tell Stan whether what was injured were his emotions or just his pride, but Stan surely heard the latter.  
  
“So I'm like, fine, my own twin hates my guts for all eternity and never wants to speak to me again. Whatever,” Stan shoves his plate away from himself, as if clearing space on the table for his words, and it clinks against Ford's. “I'll do my own thing, have my own adventures, get my own girls, without him. And here I am, just trying to live out my life, and out of nowhere and without wanting to say a word to me at all before now, you _demand_ I stop my day, put my life on pause, so you can corner me into-- into- whatever _this_ is supposed to be--”  
  
Stan is containing himself, but barely.  
  
“You freak out and try to act like you give a shit about me for a minute, but you just wanna sit here and throw your smart guy college bullshit in my face, like I didn't already know everyone thinks you're better than me! What even goes on in that big dumb nerd brain of yours?”

If Ford were a few years older, he imagines that this would be a much simpler interaction - if there had been more time for him to really solidify his anger towards Stanley, more time for him to convince himself of the way he was _supposed_ to feel about Stan. He could believe steadfastly that he was angry, that his life had been made unduly hard, and it was all Stan's fault. That was what their father thought and more or less told Ford to think. Sure, the West Coast Tech thing worked out, but what about all the other times Stan had held him back, had convinced him to goof around instead of studying, learning, and other things that could feasibly help turn his existence into a more lucrative venture?

“Does that thing still think using people words or do you only understand-… equations or participles or whatever?! What were you even thinking?”

If Ford were a few years older, maybe he could punch Stanley. That would be nice, Ford thinks. They could wrestle, throw each other around. In fact, if they were older _or_ younger, they could fight this out. They could scrape their knuckles and bust lips and someone could sport a nice, shiny black eye that would say, 'Look we resolved everything!' That would be easier, and they could hate each other or love each other again, and nothing would have to be awkward and strained. Nothing would be complicated. They could scream it all out and it could be over.

Stan groaned. “Dude, stop being all-”

What _had_ he been thinking asking Stanley to eat with him? Probably nothing. Stan hadn't always had that effect on him, had he? What was he _thinking_? That… that Ford had ruined Stan's life? 'And how was this meant to fix that? This isn't--… he isn't one of my colleagues from lecture who I snubbed during a debate and I thought I could just-- make amends, casually apologize for having a blinding excitement for the field of anomalistic research. I-'

“I… I don't know what I was thinking.” Ford's voice escapes him as a breathy whisper.

Ford isn't aware of when it happened, but he'd slumped in his seat. His chest felt heavy, his head felt light, and his fingers didn't feel anything at all, having gone numb and white from being anxiously sat on, pressed into the vinyl cushioned seat. He realizes that he's been just sort of staring somewhere below and to the side of Stan's shoulder, but even then he doesn't correct himself or find a better direction that makes more sense to look in.

Ford looks hurt, and Stan knows it must be his doing. It turns his stomach to see Ford being anything but enthusiastic, regardless of whether it's in his school work or in hating him. Stan sighs.  
  
“I should go.”

Ford panics.

“What? No. Stan-”  
  
“ _What_ can you sit here and _not_ say to me that you haven't already not said a goddamn thing about?” Stan does a much better job at looking as frustrated as Ford feels as he lifts up from the seat a little to pull his phone from his back pocket. “That I want to hear? I _have_ to go, Ford, it's almost 4, and I have somewhere to be.” He looks like he's checking his messages, but Ford can't tell for sure.  
  
'He has a phone-? _I'm an idiot of course he has a-_ '  
  
“We should trade numbers first.”  
  
“Do I have to?”  
  
Ford frowns. “You don't _have_ to, but-… that's the thing people do, I-I mean- we're brothers, Stanley.” The words come out like they're hurting his mouth. “I know you probably don't think much of talking to me now, but maybe it could be better for us… later…?”  
  
“Are you tryna be serious or-?”  
  
“Do you really never want to speak to me again that badly, Stanley?”

Stanley sighs deeply and continues to fiddle with his phone for a few moments, his brother watching intently, adam's apple bobbing ever so slightly with nervousness. He huffs a second time, putting his phone away, “There.” Ford looks confused and fretful at Stan, and he feels his insides starting to puddle again as Stanley stands up and pulls cash (apparently for both of their meals) from his back pocket. He throws the money down with little grace before collecting himself and starting to walk away. Again, Ford panics.  
  
“Stanley- were you going to-?”  
  
He stops in his tracks as Ford catches up to him. “Going to what?”  
  
“You said-- we were going to trade numbers?”  
  
“Check your phone, genius.”  
  
Ford stares blankly before processing Stan's words and pulling his phone from his pocket. He has a text from a random phone number that just has Stan's name as the message. Stan starts walking again.  
  
Ford groans, wishing that Stan would stop running away from him for once. Sue shouts something at them from behind the bar on their way out, but Ford doesn't think to listen to her for a moment. 

 

X

 

It's miserably hot outside the shop as Ford almost jogs to keep up with Stan. His breathing is becoming embarrassingly ragged. Stan's still more fit than him, that much hasn't changed in three and a half years, at least.  
  
“What're you doin', Ford?”  
  
“I-I-… I thought I'd at least,” he's huffing between every other word, “walk with you to your car.”  
  
Stan grimaces at his brother, who's struggling a little bit to keep pace with him.  
  
“It's kinda hard to, y'know, _leave_ with you followin' me.”  
  
If what faintly remained of their fabled twin connection didn't tell Stan he'd get popped for it, he'd remind Ford that running after people to their cars isn't really polite behavior, to say the least.  
  
“ _Stanley_ , I'm trying, okay? This is strange, I know, it's weird-- we're _both_ \- I'm-” he can't say sorry, primarily because the word doesn't even cross his mind, and the truth is far too embarrassing, “-doing the best I can, and I just want-- _why_ do you have to make this so difficult?”  
  
"Not right now, Stanford-" Somehow the bite from Stan's earlier accusations has lessened. If anything, he just seems... tired.

But Ford is nothing if not relentlessly selfish. "Then when? I can't have-- have us just be--” Ford trips a little over his own feet, but catches himself, exasperated, “ _this_."

The word falls out of his mouth without him considering what it is that he's implying they'd rather be, and Ford regrets this, expecting to hear more of the self righteous anger of the Stanley who can do no wrong putting him in his place for getting ahead of himself. Ford has no idea what he'd rather they be.

"Just... later, Ford-" Still, Stan just sounds sheepish, worn out.  
  
Ford hated it when his brother didn't meet his expectations.

"If I let you go until later, I'll never see you again, _again_!"

"We just saw each other for like an hour-"

"I had to drag you!"

"Look, this is me, Ford, I gotta-"

Ford isn't totally sure how they got here, but they're in a parking lot that he only vaguely recognizes but can't place within the map of the city as he's aware of it (which is essentially just the path between his apartment and the college). For someone so frequently referred to as a genius without a hint of sarcasm, his occasional lack of situational awareness was astounding. Not ten feet away from where the twins were standing was the same dinged-up old, red convertible Stan drove off in three and a half years ago. Much like Stan, the car was something Ford never thought he'd lay eyes on again. Also like Stan, what he saw was… _challenging_ his expectations, to say the least.  
  
“-I'll be late, so-”  
  
“Where are you going?”  
  
Stan groans indignantly, but looks off to the side, feeling distrustful of the shift in Ford's tone, one that he can't entirely place. He didn't miss Ford's bluntness, the way he so often took to asking questions the instant they popped into his mind as if it were the world's duty to answer him. “Doesn't matter, but I need to get going-”  
  
“Are you on a road trip-”  
  
Stan cuts Ford off, stiffening a little. “ _No_ , Stanford, christ, I'm not so-”  
  
“-or visiting someone and then immediately returning home?”

Stan doesn't like the way Ford phrased the question. Regardless, he answers as truthfully as possible, “no,” and without any other explanation. He doesn't _owe_ Ford any explanation, yet there was still some feeling in Stan that led him to refuse to meet Ford's gaze, which he wouldn't have met anyways, because Ford was easily gliding past him to get a better look into his car.  
  
“ _Stanford!_ ”  
  
He only needed a short peek to confirm his hypothesis.  
  
“You're sleeping in your car?”  
  
The younger twin's face flushed, answering Ford's question for him. “No-- I--” the lie was a little obvious, and he tried to recover quickly, “pff, so? Cheapest way to see the country-”

“You said you weren't on a road trip.”  
  
He obviously wasn't. A presumably single man like Stan wouldn't need nearly as much, well… if Ford was being candid, _garbage_ , for a road trip. Or that many blankets. Or a pile of dirty laundry that big. Or that many empty tubes of toothpaste.  
  
“Yeah, I'm not, smartass, so if you wouldn't mind-”  
  
Ford's eyes widened as he slowly turned back to face his brother with his disheveled and unkempt hair half tucked away under his beanie, his injured seeming posture, his consuming tiredness. He wasn't gross or unwashed, but Ford seemed to just now be taking in the whole picture – the way his jeans didn't quite fit him. The way he'd kept his hands shoved down into the pockets of his jacket. The way he looked… _defeated._ The way the first dead leaves of fall had come to rest and start to pile on and around his car in any place they could find a foothold.

The car hadn't been moved in at least a few days.  
  
He swallowed, mouth sticky and dry. “H-holy shit you're _homeless_.”

Ford's sense of tact was still developing.  
  
“Fuck's sake, Stanford, don't be too subtle about it, you might hurt yourself.” Stan tugged the front of his beanie down a little further and withdrew his keys from his pocket, walking around to the other side of the car, the skin all over his body too hot to even dream of attempting intelligent conversation. “I'm done.”  
  
“Why didn't you just tell me-?!” Ford was exasperatedly following Stanley around the car, refusing to let this just go. “I-I had no idea you were-- I could've _done_ -”  
  
“Absolutely _nothing_. You could've done absolutely nothing but make me feel like a shithead and a failure. Go fuck yourself.” Stan was trying to get his car key into the door, but Ford's stupid body was blocking him. “Move.”  
  
“Don't say that, Stanley! I _could've_ , I _want to--_ how long have you even-”  
  
Stan was practically _growling_. “None of your fuckin' business. _Move_.”  
  
Ford could feel himself trembling. His heart was a knot in his throat, and his stomach felt weightless, floating aimlessly inside of his body.  
  
“It _is_ my business, Stanley, and don't tell me that it's not!”  
  
“Move, goddammit!” Stan put a hand to Ford's upper arm and made a move to shove him to the side, just so he'd stop blocking the door, but Stan apparently misjudged his own strength and Ford's lack thereof and sent Ford flying to the ground, the palms of his hands and his elbows scraping roughly against the pavement.  
  
It didn't take much to knock the wind out of Ford. When his back connects with the ground, his eyes squeeze shut, awaiting further impact, but the back of his head thankfully doesn't make the same connection. He groans as he tries to sit up, wheezing a little, and when Ford opens his eyes, he's face to face with Stanley - through his fractured breathing it takes a moment for Ford to become aware that his twin had knelt down and had been muttering swears, presumably attempting to see if he'd given Ford a concussion.

“-shit, Sixer, I didn't-”  
  
A little flushed, Ford coughs and tries to say something but the lack of oxygen in his lungs is making it difficult.  
  
“What?”  
  
Ford's moving his mouth, but the words are mostly air. “...mo-…hh...”  
  
Stan's face scrunched up, “what-? Dude, breathe.”  
  
Ford sits up completely, embarrassedly aware of his condition and trying to be as collected as possible while gasping for air, making vague gestures at Stan to give him a second.  
  
The instant he feels he has some semblance of control over his lungs, Ford pants out, insistent as ever, “Stanley-- move in with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HKEG MP GDK AAEQ AT JIXQP


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tad does his best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Dear reader, I care about you. This chapter mentions suicide, and some characters talk about it unnecessarily disparagingly. Please take care of yourselves. 
> 
> UNIMPORTANT NOTE: This chapter will introduce some characters who we'll be borrowing from other places. It is not integral to the story to know these character's origins or to be familiar with their canons (though for those not in the know, they will be listed at the end of the chapter). I promise that you will miss nothing by not knowing of where they came from.
> 
> A/N: Fiddleford is a fun character to write for me—when a character is supposed to be from the south, they're almost always from Texas or Kentucky, but Fiddleford is from Tennessee, my unfortunate homeland.

Fiddleford raps his fingers impatiently on his steering wheel as he waited on the red light two intersections away from his apartment. He's running late, again, but he reminds himself it's not really his fault – he just can't help his family sometimes.

The drive between California and Tennessee takes two days if you only take breaks from driving to sleep, if you don't speed like hell the whole way, and if you hadn't already taken the first week of classes off and desperately needed to get back to school in time for the last available session of a non-optional mechanical engineering lab. The light turns green.

It would also help if your family didn't just miss you so dearly that they convinced you to stay for an extra day, like they always do, surely with only love in their hearts. He just has such a hard time saying no to them. Since he had landed a very exhilarating mentorship position beneath the head of the Engineering Department (who it was _impossible_ to say no to), Fiddleford had been too busy this summer to make any trips down to see them. 'But they understood, Mama and Daddy always do.'

He hummed to himself pleasantly as he turned into the parking lot for his apartment complex. Fiddleford used to find his family… disappointing. And somewhat obnoxious. They didn't see the point in what he was studying, his passions, but they supported him, regardless. They would've rather him stay closer to home for college, of course, but even if they didn't understand what exactly he was doing there, they could tell that West Coast Tech was a hell of a school to get admission to. After a year or so, Fiddleford found himself unable to accurately stress how much he genuinely appreciated all of their efforts, no matter how misguided, and just accepted their support for what it was – proof that they all loved him wholeheartedly and wanted nothing for him but happiness.

It'd be difficult _not_ to see that after a few months of living with Stanford Pines.

And they'd been living together for three years now. He's spent three years of his life being adjacent to that can of worms, so yes, Fiddleford loves the shit out of his family. Ford, on the other hand...

Stanford Pines, in Fiddleford's opinion, is a sorry man who is as arrogant as he is motivated, which is to say _devastatingly_ so. If Ford was anyone else's roommate, they'd certainly kill each other. Not in a literal way, but slowly, from the inside out, with unintentionally glib comments and seemingly thoughtless actions (which were actually thought through quite thoroughly, just in a way that doesn't necessarily make sense if you aren't Ford). In short, Ford is an asshole, and he's the asshole who Fiddleford has taken for a best friend.

They play DDamD for eleven plus hours straight, on the regular. They drag out petty disagreements for weeks, silently, via cryptic notes to each other on the refrigerator. They don't sweat the difference between how expensive meals are when they cover lunch for each other. They fall asleep on top of each other. They have heated arguments over things that utterly do not matter. Occasionally and only sometimes related to the previous point, they have set fire to each others things, but it has _always_ been an accident. Fiddleford might suspect there was one instance in particular that was _not_ an accident, but he's the forgiving type. Even if he weren't, Fiddleford will always take Ford's word for it, because no matter what craziness he's got going on in his life, he knows he can trust Ford.

He parks and hops out of his car – slaps his backpack on his back, slings his duffle bag over his shoulder, and slides a couple of stacking milk crates out of his back seat. Carrying them all up stairs will be a feat, what with Fiddleford being a little bit of a skinny weakling and with them being over flowing with the edible offerings of his home: too many baked things, canned goods, some of the _good_ tobacco – actually, he's not sure what all is in there. There's something that looks like vacuum sealed meat in the crate on the bottom. 'I think Mama said she's got into making her own jerky now… so, venison, maybe? I _think_ that's what that is…'

The apartment he shares with Ford is a sixth floor walk up. The building is somewhat older, crumbling a little, and there's no elevator, but it's relatively clean and under-priced for being as close to campus and downtown as it is. It has some charm to it – the wallpaper in the lobby is more floral than any set of linens Fiddleford's ever seen, even amongst his mother's more heirloom-esque items. There's a bulletin board by the office with surprisingly interesting information: garage band shows, incredibly odd job listings, pet walking services run by nine-year-olds. There are also a few copies of the same poster haphazardly tacked on top of other items, a black and white eight-and-a-half-by-eleven print out, but Fiddleford is too busy struggling under milk crates and an unruly duffle bag to consider it right now. He glides past them, to the stairwell.  
  
'God _damn_ do I hate stairs but it feels good to be _home_.'

Five flights of stairs and some close calls with the swaying duffle bag attempting to make him lose his balance and take a fall later, Fiddleford is doing an excellent job of seeming not nearly as winded as he feels. Their door isn't more than twenty feet from the stairwell, and he lets out a relieved sigh as he presses the milk crates to the wall beside their front door with his chest and uses his free hand to dig out his keys. He's sweating a bit, not just from carrying the care packages, but from the fact that the stairwell and hallways aren't air conditioned in the slightest. But that's fine, because once he gets the key jammed into the door he's greeted by the blissful rush of cold air he's been dying for and steps into their kitchen, shutting the door behind himself and flipping on the light.

Milk crates get stacked on the definitely-just-a-card-table (which they picked up for free a couple of years ago, “until we get a real one,” which never happened), and he pulls out the items that he's fairly certain are perishables and tucks them away in the fridge. He struggles slightly trying to get his damnable duffle bag up and over his head, but he does so he can carry it through the kitchen and their short hallway to toss it along with his backpack in his room with he rest of his clutter. He checks his phone and smiles triumphantly realizing it's not quite noon yet and that there's still just enough time for him to shower before his afternoon class with Ford.  
  
Speaking of his roommate, where is that dork? Is he still sleeping? 'Just as well,' he thinks as he rifles through a pile of semi-clean clothes, 'If I can sneak through the living room without him noticing, we won't get stuck in a conversation. He can tell me all about what I missed in the TA group on the way to class.'

The tawny-brown haired man shuffles out of his bedroom and to the door of his bathroom; Ford's bathroom is attached to his room, which makes it a little difficult for Fiddleford to criticize how frequently the other does or does not shower, though he suspects his habits to be criticizable. Their living room is dark; the only light that filters in are stray beams from between the blinds drawn in front of the balcony door, casting the room mostly in a deep blue with the occasional streak of pale white that shifts with the hum of the blessed air conditioning. As he lifts his hand to the handle of his bathroom door, he hears a slight rumble behind him, which he just now realizes he's been hearing faintly in the background since he walked in.

He stopped.  
  
It was snoring. He turned around to face the couch, where his roommate was stretched out haphazardly, asleep. Fiddleford rolled his eyes. “Th' hell is Ford doin' sleepin' on th' couch _shirtless_?” And where'd he get all that _body hair_ from? Long hair, broad shoulders… five fingers on each…

'God fucking dammit, Stanford.' He dropped his clothes on the coffee table next to a couple of dirty-but-scraped-clean plates and marched over to Ford's door on the other side of the room. Knocking politely yielded no results. He knocked impatiently.  
  
A bed creaked and the muffled sound of sheets being tossed aside came from behind the door, “Uh-… ah, just a moment-”

Fiddleford started, enunciating authoritatively, “Stanford Pines--”  
  
The door creaks open slowly, and Ford, still in his lounge pants and faded t-shirt, hair floofed all to one side, interrupts him with an audible yawn that ends in, “-how are you?”  
  
“What? Stanf'rd. Stan _ford-_ Are you--… ” Without his reading glasses on, Fiddleford was free to rub his entire face, annoyed. “Great. What's the gritty reality TV version of you doin' asleep on our couch, and why am I just now findin' out about it? How long has _he_ been stayin' here?” There was a slight stirring from the couch that paused the both of them, but after a moment of stillness the rumbling resumed, Ford ran a palm over his slightly puffy, pinkish eyes and up his forehead and frowned.

“I ran into him yesterday,” he answered, eyes closed. “He's just been on the couch and I-”

“Don't tell me _that's_ Stanley.”

That woke Ford up.  
  
He didn't answer, though his silence was answer enough.  
  
Fiddleford's voice was hushed, but angry. “What in the _hell_ is your brother doing here?”

Ford leveled his shoulders and took an indignant but uncertain tone. “He needed a place to stay for a few nights, so I offered. He won't get in the way, and he won't eat your food, so you don't need to worry about him.”  
  
“Pardon, I misspoke. _Why_ is your brother here, as in, why do you think it's a good fuckin' idea that he's here?”

Ford's mouth fell open slightly. He wasn't shocked by his roommate's swearing – he swears with more frequency than Ford. It's just, 'why is Fiddleford acting this way? What would he have against Stanley?' “Excuse me?” He crossed his arms and leaned one shoulder against the frame of his open door. “Where is this coming from? You've never taken issue with me having guests before now.”  
  
“You haven't never _had_ no guests, Ford, and me neither, and that's beside the _point-_ – how do you not see a problem with this?”

“Yeah, Ford,” Stanley chimed in, tired, “how is that?”

Neither of the two had registered before this moment that the rumbling coming from the direction of the couch had stilled a second time without resuming. Stan had sat up and been listening to them, watching with an arm slung over the back of the couch for what surely had to be an uncomfortable amount of time for everyone.  
  
  
X  
  
  
An unshowered Fiddleford and Ford sat in the back of the engineering lab. The lab was a three and a half hour long period seemingly dedicated to frighteningly old soldering guns, dangling wires, and blinking lights. Perhaps because Fiddleford was a little out of his depth from missing the first week of classes, the two had managed to keep civil for the first hour, but as the class transitioned out of the more guided portion with the TA giving demonstrations, the morale was faltering.  
  
Ford had pushed aside his portion of the assignment to stick his nose in his notes for the petty purpose of documenting and pulling apart an awkward analogy the TA had used to explain some aspect of the equipment they were using. The energy between the two roommates might've been so positive up until this moment simply because they hadn't said a word to each other since the argument at the apartment. They'd walked to campus in total silence. The lab is starting to fill up with the idle chatter of the other, much more normal people who are having much more normal days when Ford hesitantly speaks up.  
  
“So you... are okay with this… is what I can reasonably assume from our talk earlier, irrelevant to the project we're working on right now?”  
  
“I never said that.”  
  
“Are you sure?” Even though he wasn't facing Fiddleford, Ford looked up and to the side in a way that could only be interpreted as rolling them if you really wanted to be technical about it. “I'm fairly certain I listened to you welcome him with open arms. You said it wasn't fair of you to judge him, that you don't really know him, and then you introduced yourself and literally shook his hand.”  
  
“It's called not _pokin' the goddamn bear_ , Stanf'rd.” Fiddleford put his soldering gun down and reached across the lab table to unplug it before pulling out some worksheets. “Y'know, because it's clear he's got no intent to leave any time soon.”

Ford scoffed despite his guilt. “It's not like he's moving in with us.”  
  
He might have said something to that effect yesterday, sure, but Ford assured himself it wasn't his fault – he was just a little suggestible sometimes. If Stanley hadn't kept trying to force his way past him to the car and then flustered him by shoving him down, Ford was sure he would've found a very reasonable and eloquent way to graciously offer their couch to him for just a few nights, had he been so inclined.  
  
Plus, slip of the tongue or not, Stan had vehemently refused his offer, and between then and the very underwhelming end of the evening, they had managed to avoid coming to a resolution on the topic.  
  
“...sure. How'd you say you ran into him, again?”

“You know that place you like, with the sandwiches? And the horrible name?”  
  
Fiddleford was drawing a legitimate blank. “There're a lot of those, Stanf'rd.”

Ford groaned. “The bar-brunch-sandwich place. Pretext. I went there for lunch yesterday, and he just happened to be there. We ate together, caught up a little bit. He seemed to be in kind of a spot, and I offered. Not a big deal.”  
  
“So you're tellin' me he disappears like four years ago-”  
  
“Three and a half,” Ford corrects.  
  
“-and he just shows up within a few blocks of your school, on the other side of the country, and just runs into you. That's not suspicious _at all_ to you? This is your normal?”  
  
The brunette closed his lab notebook and withdrew one of his personal ones from his bag. “I didn't say it was normal, and there's nothing wrong with being _not_ normal.”  
  
“Oh come on, Stanf'rd, y'know I didn't mean-”  
  
Fiddleford was interrupted by the screech of several stools being scooted back and the clatter of some being knocked over as students jumped up in panic. Near the front of the classroom, four rows ahead of where they were sitting, smoke had begun rising from a lab table. The students around the table had freaked out, but most everyone else in the room just sort of looked on with mild bemusement, since after a certain point in the day that's about all that jaded and exhausted college students have the energy or ability to do. As the students that had gotten up backed away from the lab table, Ford could see that something must've sparked and started a fire that had spread halfway across the table now, feeding on every worksheet and spiral notebook it could reach.  
  
The TA had already started scrambling to find the fire extinguisher, but failing that, she elected to retrieve what Ford assumed was her own hoodie and started trying to smother the fire with it.

Through her swearing and shrieking, Ford became aware someone stepped into frame between him and the TA's frantic actions to quell the fire. The man was of average height, build, and complexion, without any features of particular note. The staggeringly normal man lets out a gasp that Ford assumes is meant to sound sincere, but his emotive abilities in general, in Ford's opinion, have always seemed somewhat flaccid. “Oh my goodness! Did I do that?” His eyebrows turned upwards as he shook his head with a small smile. “Silly Tad.”

Ford grimaced as Tad Strange calmly made his way to assist the TA in finishing what he had apparently started. He couldn't stand Tad. Sure, he had a moderately intelligent mind, but he clearly and vocally has no interest in advancing the boundaries of science. It was as if he was _just_ here to _learn._ The thought alone made Ford want to wretch. Being in Tad's presence felt like having his normalness rubbed in your face, 'and to be entirely frank, he dresses like a missionary.' Not that Ford was much more hip with his own buttoned shirt and long sleeved cardigan.

'Christ, why waste your time at one of the top schools in the country if you have no interest in grad school and your biggest ambition in life is something boring and shitty as being a public high school teacher? Who can put so much effort into being so _palpably normal_?'

Fiddleford flicked Ford's pen out of his hand. “Ford. Are y'listenin' to me?”  
  
Ford blinked.  
  
“Of course you're not. Last time I'm sayin' this – two weeks is my limit. I don't care how homeless your brother is. He's trouble, and I don't feel comfortable with him stayin' around _that_ long, even.”  
  
“...mhm.”  
  
“ _Ford._ ”

“ _I heard you_. He's probably not even going to hang around for that long, so don't worry about having to kick him out.” Ford looked up from the petty argument they were having to see the fire extinguished and the unfortunately pleasant man walking over to them. 'Dammit it all, why?'

Tad greets them both with a nod and a smile before turning to Fiddleford.  
  
“Fiddleford, how are you? How was your trip down to see your family?”  
  
Ford wasn't sure why or how, but for some reason, Fiddleford and Tad are actually (and it pains him to think about it) _friends_. The kind of friends that make _small talk_.  
  
“It was good!” Fiddleford smiled, sincerely happy that he'd been asked. “Even got to see my cousins. Thanks for askin'.”  
  
“And how did your mother's jerky turn out?”  
  
Again, he smiled. “Weird, but delicious-- oh shoot, Tad, your hands- are you, uh, going to be okay?”  
  
Tad looked a little puzzled before thinking to look at his hands and realize he'd hurt himself trying to help put out the fire. “Oh,” he smiled, placidly. They weren't major injuries, but his sleeves were slightly singed and he had a dozen small burns flecked across his hands and wrists. “Haha, I'll be fine. I guess I won't leave my soldering gun on and unattended next to a pile of flammable materials again! Anywho, you _are_ still coming tonight, right?”

Ford could feel Fiddleford tense a little bit beside him and wondered vaguely if Tad was good enough friends with Fiddleford to notice it too. “Crap. The service is tonight, isn't it?”

“Yes, and I'm sure it would mean something to the other students if you could be there to show your support, the more students the better, you know? You'll be there, right?”  
  
“Excuse me–” Ford cut in, feeling left out of the loop. “What service is this that we're talking about?”

“Oh Stanford, you don't know?” The remorse in his voice is genuine. “I'm sorry, I thought I'd told you before now – I organized the memorial service that's happening tonight. You don't remember?”  
  
“No, I don't believe you mentioned-”  
  
“The posters in the halls? Or the emails I sent out-”  
  
“I guess I wasn't in the email chain.” He could feel his face starting to twitch.  
  
Tad both looked at and offered these words to him apologetically, “you're right. I asked the dean to attach the announcement to some of his memos these past few weeks, so they were probably easy to miss-”

God, how justifiably Ford hated Tad Strange.

“-so, you know. No pressure. Don't worry about it, Stanford.” Tad straightened his tie slightly and put a hand up to wave a friendly goodbye. “I'll see you tonight, Fiddleford.” He left on that note, not just back to his desk, but out of the lab, hopefully to seek medical attention.  
  
A silence started to nestle itself between the two that remained.  
  
  
X  
  
  
It was later that same evening, after their lab ended and after a couple classes they didn't have together that followed. Fiddleford gently suggested that Ford should not come to the event since he lacks almost any sense of social literacy and apparently hates the person organizing it, but Ford insisted in a way that he assured his best friend was not spiteful in the slightest.

“Y'really didn't have to come…” Fiddleford sighed. “Do you even know what this is for?”  
  
“Of course.” Ford rolled his eyes. 'Tad said it was a memorial service, and there is literally only one thing on campus that could be referring to.'

The event was being hosted outside, on the steps and large pavilion outside the library on campus. The sky was beginning to turn a golden yellow with the setting sun, and there were lights strung up to accommodate the inevitable failure of the heavens above them to illuminate the moderately well attended event. At the top of the steps there was a podium and speakers framed beneath a rather plain white banner that read, in black text, _STRANGE WAYS_ _TO COPE_ _WITH STRESS_ _._

Ford felt a little lost, and if he were to be honest – as if anything ever stopped him from doing so – repulsed. “I, uh… I mean I think I do.”  
  
The turn out for the event was rather decent for such a… _weird_ take on recognizing their deceased classmates.  
  
“S-so… is this a Buzzfeed article about unexpected ways to deal with being unable to live up to the strenuous requirements of grad school, or is this Tad's poorly conceived suicide joke?”

Fiddleford smacks Ford sharply but not terribly hard across the shoulder. “Don't talk like that. What if someone heard you, man?”

In all fairness, Ford had yet to discern how much of the event's organization was orchestrated by Tad and how much of it was the product of meddling done by the school's legal department and various haphazardly managed student government associations. The set up is pretty sparse, but the string lights, light snacks, and trifold presentations made it clear that whatever this was _meant to be_ went through the school's various necessary channels before it could be whatever it _is now_.

“Firstly, _ow._ ” The two of them wade through a loose crowd of people, most of whom seem primarily intent on casually hitting up the university's typically mediocre snack selection. “Secondly, so you're telling me that doesn't sound a little, you know... tone deaf?”  
  
Fiddleford knew that when Tad first started talking about doing something like this a couple months ago, shortly after the third student had taken his own life, he had intended to start a support group – some kind of sponsored club that would be a place for students to get together and talk about what was going on in their lives. This was made very difficult due to the very thorough effort West Coast Tech was making toward denying there was anything going on.

But Tad pushed for it. A few weeks later, he started putting up posters and sending out emails for a one night memorial service which still must've been made difficult to put together since the school was only officially acknowledging two of the incidents (and likely pushed back against Tad wanting to specifically name the deceased – Craz, Marco, and Simon). The fact that the school is letting anything even _close_ to what he'd originally envisioned happen is astonishing.

“Y'know the school prolly had way more to do with that than he did,” the southerner sounded defensive but uneasy.

“The trifolds do seem fairly wholesome, I suppose.” Ford said, suspicious, but taking note of them all the same as he blindly followed Fiddleford through the crowd. A good number seemed to be genuinely well meaning, but of course the only ones drawing any significant attention were those passing out candy or free drink cozies. It was almost completely indiscernible from any other event allowed to be hosted on campus.  
  
“Tad!” Fiddleford beamed. The fact that seeking out Tad was obviously the intent of them weaving their way through the crowd only now occurred to Ford. If he had thought about it sooner, he could've checked out some of those captivating trifolds on his own and avoided this mildly irritating exchange.

'Of course,' Ford thought, as he looked up from his shoes to see the not-really-all-that-strange man. Tad smiles pleasantly back at Fiddleford as he greets him, wearing his usual dark dress pants, white button up, and black tie but with the addition of a black suit jacket, apparently dressed to say some at least moderately charming words about being a community all in this together or something else alleged to be meaningful.

“Oh, hm. It's nice to see you Stanford,” said a third voice.

Ford blinked dumbly and shifted his gaze to see Preston Northwest beside Tad. He nodded and silently raised a six fingered hand in greeting. Preston and Tad must have been talking before he and Fiddleford came up to them. Ford wouldn't know – he hadn't been paying any attention and preferred to mentally re-run through some of the problems he'd been struggling with in his physics lab earlier in the week.  
  
“I'm so glad you could make it, Fiddleford. And you even brought Stanford, how nice,” Tad droned on, cheerfully. “I wanted to speak with you – I've been sort of checking in with everyone to see how they're doing. I'm up in a few minutes, but I thought--”  
  
Ford willfully tuned out, but that unfortunately left him owing what little attention he had to Preston.

Neither he nor Fiddleford had a significant problem with Preston Northwest. He could be callous, jerkish, sure, but the guy isn't _evil_. Preston's parents had obviously paid his way, and regardless of his intelligence, merit, or skill, the school accepted him. Ford only shares one class with him (likely due to it being an interesting but low effort elective), but even then he can't recall Preston ever answering questions or volunteering for extracurricular opportunities related to the class – or even _being_ there half the time. His whole purpose in life seems to be looking attractive and being involved with the college's community at large rather than possessing an allegiance with any one department.  
  
He wasn't a bad person, though, and certainly not as hideously _normal_ as Tad. There are worse people to feel obligated to make small talk with. Tad, for example.  
  
“Hm. What're you doing here, Preston?”  
  
“Tad invited me.”  
  
“Not supporting or mourning anybody?” Ford smirked inwardly.  
  
Preston frowned. “That _as well_ , Stanford. And yourself?”  
  
His heart whispered to him _spite,_ the truthful answer, but he nodded along politely and strategically mumbled something that sounded like agreement or confirmation or whatever he was supposed to say right at this moment. It was loud within the cloud of people at the center of the pavilion, so he knew Preston would just nod in return to whatever sounds his mouth made.  
  
Someone of no importance to Ford, but official looking, came up to Tad while pointing at a clipboard, and in the moment that he was distracted, Fiddleford put his hand to Ford's shoulder to draw his attention and pointed in a direction in which Ford could also sense nothing of importance. He turned his head in close to Fiddleford's, mouth almost brushing his ear to ask what it is he was supposed to be seeing.

“C'mon, dude. Xyler's-- I think he's _shakin'_ over there.”  
  
Xyler, whose last name Ford could not recall, is sitting with his elbows on his knees and his palms clasped over the back of his head halfway down the library steps. Since he's a Pre-Law student, he isn't the sort of character that Ford ran into much, but all of campus became simultaneously aware of his existence when Craz disappeared.  
  
A crackle came through the sound system, and the obedient crowd hushed. An announcement is made that the spoken portion of the event is to begin briefly, just as soon as they can get all of their speakers accounted for and lined up, ready to go. Tad took this as his cue.

“Well, that's me! Gosh, I am so nervous,” Tad sucked in his bottom lip for a moment before pulling another godforsaken smile. “Wish me luck!” With that, he skipped away towards the podium, leaving the other three to enjoy themselves.  
  
They stood together silently for a moment. Preston checked his phone, Fiddleford perused a copy of the program he retrieved from his pocket, and Ford glanced at his watch.  
  
Ford doesn't look up from his watch as he messes with the buttons on the side. “What do you think they'll say?”  
  
Fiddleford quotes the program. “Introduction of faculty, introduction of student speakers… an' it lists off some people an' their presentations… _Exercisin_ _'_ _Your Way To Happiness, Friendship Is The Best Medicine_...” The more he lists off, the more uncomfortable Fiddleford seems.  
  
“None of that sounds like they're actually going to acknowledge any of the incidents – which isn't to say I'm surprised.” Ford rolled his eyes. “I wonder what they'll spin it as instead.”  
  
Preston lowers his voice and glances around before throwing in his two cents. “Something well postured, I assume _,_ ” says Preston, in an uncharacteristic show of empathy, albeit subtle, and Fiddleford can't believe he agrees with him. He genuinely wants to be supportive of Tad. He _is_ supportive of Tad but only as supportive as he can be for a semi-casual acquaintance.  
  
Ford smirked, honestly reveling a little bit in feeling as though he'd emphatically proved himself right.  
  
“I mean--” Fiddleford started, uncertain. “It's meant to be more of a preventative measure than a response-- that's all, right? It's not going to do any of those guys much good now for someone to wax all poetic about 'em.”  
  
“Because Tad's just helping _so_ many people with his bit on-” he tilts his head to get a good read of the program in Fiddleford's hand. “ _Coping Is The Key: How To Smile Through Not Being Happy_ \- uh _wow_. _”_

“Stanf'rd, have you considered that Tad is at least tryin' _real hard_ to help some people feel better, and all you're doin' is dumpin' on it so you can feel good about _you_? It's not his fault the school is censorin' things like this. Have you ever tried to consider his perspective an' think about why he might be doin' what he's doin'?”  
  
“I'd honestly rather throw myself into traffic.”  
  
“Hooooo boy.” Fiddleford put both his hands to his face and exhaled deeply before holding his palms up and forward in defeat. “Alright. You're just gettin' me angry now. I'm goin' to see how Xyler's doin' – y'know, follow Tad's example an' think about someone b'sides myself instead of bein' a shit head for a minute. Later.”

Preston stood there, openly gawking, but somewhat disarmed by watching Fiddleford trot off. “Stanford, I don't see how you can be so,” he struggled to find the words, “So-- so _not bothered_ by this.”  
  
It was unclear whether he meant Ford driving away his roommate (Preston just doesn't know them well enough to know this is how they settle most disagreements) or previous statements about the service. This doesn't really bother him. “I'm not trying to be insensitive or edgy. This is objectively a waste of everyone's time.”

Ford quickly makes note that there's no social pressures keeping him trapped in this exchange with Preston. His investment in this cause was fictional in the first place. Now would be a fantastic time to make his exit; there was something in his physics lab earlier in the week that had been bugging him, and the lab building should still be unlocked for another forty-five minutes. If he left now, he could spend an hour or so just picking through it and other parts of his work that had been bothering him.

“I suppose I agree, Stanford… but,” Preston made some vague gestures that were slightly less politely restrained than usual. He spoke slowly, as if he was trying to construct an intelligent and unemotional opinion as intentionally as possible. Something a high society person should say. “Rather, I have no interest in the degree of your obtuseness' effect on your… partnerships, aren't-” he lowered his voice – barely above a whisper in the sea of people around them, the opening statements playing over the sound system – and leaned imperceptibly closer. “At the least, aren't you a little scared? For yourself?”  
  
Ford's face scrunched up. Was that a genuine concern or an insult? Both possibilities left him feeling insulted. “Scared of what?”  
  
Preston didn't say anything, but Ford could see the outline of his fists balled tightly in his pockets.

Ford raised his eyebrows and refocused his vision off to the side, suddenly feeling a tad awkward. “I've no intent to do anything here but work on my studies. If you need to...” he doesn't have the delicate touch for this, “ _talk_ to someone, Preston, the university has-”  
  
“Jesus-- _no, you imbecile_.” Preston's face is flush with embarrassment. “I'm of perfectly healthy mind and soul- I'm not-” He withdrew his hands from his pockets to cross them in a way that was not effeminate. “A-also, wow, what makes you think I'd look to _you_ for-- no. Just no, Stanford.”  
  
“Then what is it that either of us have to be scared of?” Ford deadpanned. “You think someone _else_ threw Marco off the roof of his dorm? Or hung Sim-”  
  
“ _That,”_ Preston interrupted, startled, “is an unnecessary level of specificity for this setting, Stanford.” Preston anxiously rubbed his neck with his left hand.  
  
“All settings are appropriate for facts. It's not like their families are here.”  
  
As per usual, Ford was correct. Excepting a few randoms, the crowd was almost entirely made up of people Ford uncannily felt as though he'd seen before, despite the school being so large. Faces from the background of his various labs and lecture classes. Most of them possessed the advanced exhaustion and dishevelment reserved for grad students. 'That makes sense. Marco and Simon were both grad students.'  
  
“But… I _have_ been wondering if that might be the case.”

“You can't be serious.”

Preston huffed. “Not to be _glib_ ,” he emphasized, as if to imply that glib was more Ford's thing, “but you must see where I'm going with this–” He punctuated his words carefully, not distressed in any way. He spoke plainly. “I am _rich_ , Stanford. If someone is hunting college students, I dare _say_ I should be concerned.”

Ford barely attempted to hide the roll of his eyes by pointedly adjusting his glasses. “So far the alleged _victims_ seem to all have been intelligent and invested people who were trying to _do_ something with their lives – and none of them _rich_. I think you'll be just fine.”

An intrusive thought creeps up on Ford, and while Preston takes offense to his words, he looks around and realizes that Xyler and Fiddleford had been gone for some time now. The hair on his arms prickles just a little bit before a follow up thought comes to him. He checks his watch. The lab building will be locked in thirty minutes.  
  
He wasn't listening to Preston at all, but he supposed he still had to leave the conversation somewhat amicably. He just sort of waited until Preston had bitched himself out up until a dramatic pause, and Ford mumbled something about him being right, acted as though he had forgotten the time, and waved goodbye. Preston was still mid sentence.  
  
It's seven thirty-two. There's still twenty-eight minutes before the doors automatically lock for the night, and Ford could reasonably assume he could stay an hour or so past it locking before a security guard would start making rounds and make him feel too uncomfortable to continue working (despite being completely allowed to be there) with his presence.  
  
  
X  
  
  
Ford arrived home shortly after one in the morning. He had exhausted himself and all hope he had for trying to sort out his project. For now, at least.

Their kitchen was cast in black save for a faint glow of dim, violet light emanating from the living room. He dropped his keys on the counter and walked through their kitchen toward the sound of running water coming from Fiddleford's bathroom. The shades in front of their sliding balcony door had been pulled aside and left open, letting in the soft light of the moon and the city outside. Ford flicked on a lamp so he could see his way to draw the blinds shut.  
  
He figured his roommate would be asleep by now, and perhaps he could talk to Stanley some more before curling up in bed to pass out, maybe finish what they started last night (or this morning). But the couch was unoccupied, and the blanket he had given Stanley had been loosely folded and thrown over the arm of the couch. Their plates from last night were gone.

Ford felt empty.

The sound of water running cut off, tendrils of steam leeching out from beneath Fiddleford's bathroom door. Ford knocked.  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
It was Fiddleford's voice.

“Have you seen Stanley?” he called, through the bathroom door. He tried to not sound disappointed about the answer coming from Fiddleford.

The bathroom sighed at him.

"Naw, I just now got back from hangin' out with Xyler."

Incredulous, "Just now?"

"Uh, yeah? Where were you?"

"The lab, I was... working."

The door opens and a light puff of steam comes out behind Fiddleford, shirtless. The only clothes he's wearing are lounge pants that cling to his damp body. His hair seems darker when wet, slicked back and slightly stuck to his face, but well kept. He lifted the edge of the towel hanging around his neck to scrub at the side of his face and try to get the water out of his ears. "Yeah? What on?"

That sensation of emptiness seemed to occupy most of his body now. Empty, but heavy. He told himself it was the five flights of stairs up to their apartment that made him feel this way.

"Nothing successful..." Ford opened his bedroom door and walked inside to set his bag down. He left the door open so he could keep talking as he stepped over to his closet to start removing the day's layers and get ready for bed. “I'm still,” he raised his voice a little, even though he knew Fiddleford was listening to him, “struggling a little with the material from the end of last semester, it's just not carrying over like it's supposed to, I guess.”  
  
“Y'wanna look at my notes? I mean, you usually get the experimental stuff more right than me. I'm not even sure if I understand it right-” Fiddleford chuckled a little. “But I got the expected results, so I did _somethin'_ right.”

Ford reappeared in the doorway to his bedroom in his pajama pants and t-shirt under a navy blue hoodie. “I'll figure it out on my own, given enough time.” He doesn't really feel that much like himself right now, but maybe that's for the best. Reluctantly, he smirks a little. “I have to. It's become personal.”  
  
Fiddleford had taken up residence on the couch. His hair wasn't slicked back and drippy wet anymore, just towel dried damp and messily flipping out in none of the usual directions. He had a mug of something warm looking and one of the heftier textbooks they shared, an orange highlighter in his right hand. He looked up at Ford and snorted a little. “I'll have my answers ready when you give up.”  
  
“Thanks,” Ford mumbles as he withdraws his phone from the pocket of his hoodie and joins his roommate on the couch. He's not sure why he's doing this. He's tired. He wants – strike that, he _needs_ bed. Desperately. But he feels wanting. He wants, but he doesn't know what. This is the part of the day where, if they ran into each other and were still awake, they'd sit in silence for a while and just do their own thing, adjacently. Ford couldn't recall a time where he felt like he _wanted_ something from it.  
  
“Fiddleford?”  
  
“Yeah?” He kept his eyes trained on the book in front of him and sounded polite at face value, but Ford feels like he's interrupting him.  
  
“Today...” he tried to start confidently, but paused, unsure. “I didn't-- the words weren't-- I mean _I_ couldn't speak adequately to what I was-... I didn't mean-"

Fiddleford listened to Ford start and stop thoughts, never finishing them, and knew that his attempts at tactfulness were the closest thing to an apology that Ford is capable of producing. He nodded. "I'm sorry too. For bein' all pissed off this mor-… well, all day, if I'm bein' honest.”

“About Stanley?”  
  
“Yeah, I was kinda… short about it.” Ford seemed to perk up just a little bit. “I mean, I still want him out, of course, but that doesn't mean I should've been so-"

"Why?" Ford frowned. “What's wrong with him staying with us for a little while that makes you _this upset_?”

Fiddleford sighed, sounding injured but not defeated, and closed the textbook. "Do you not remember, _Stanf_ _ord_ , how when I first met you, you were quakin' in your loafers just shit wrecked over what he did to you?”  
  
That was a silly question. Of course Ford remembered; what followed was the worst summer of his life. It defined him, his every memory – things happened before Stanley left and things happened after Stanley was gone.  
  
“--to your future-... not even so much that he'd broken your project, as fucked up as _that_ was, but that he hid it from you? That he was completely unphased by havin' hurt you? That he hurt you and then just plain did not care?"

Ford breathed unevenly, but had nothing to say. He remembered, and he knows Fiddleford remembers too.

"And you _hated_ him. You tol' me--” Without interruption, Fiddleford continued. “You cried on me, Ford-”

“ _Dude._ ”  
  
“No, no-- I still promise not to be a dick about it. I'm not sayin' it to tease you. All I'm sayin' is that from an outside perspective, he hurt you. An' I'm not tryin' to take a load of credit here-”

Ford stood up from the couch, trying to act casual, as if this were a casual conversation that wasn't devastating him. “Right.” He's trying to sound as calm and as agreeable as possible. But Fiddleford just kept talking even as Ford made his way to his bedroom.  
  
“ _But_ I like to think I helped get you up out of that ditch, man. Got you to talk to admissions an' send out your work. Make phone calls. And then you helped me-- you had your foot in the door, an' I went from kicking rocks in New Jersey to one of the best schools in the country. Because of you. You helped me."

"Not really that much."  
  
Ford shut himself in his bedroom. He shut the door softly, slowly. He knew he was being childish, but he couldn't help it – he just couldn't bear to think about Fiddleford being so goddamn right.  
  
An audible sigh came from outside his bedroom door. “ _Stanford_.”  
  
He flicked the lights off and laid in his bed, pressing his face to his lumpy old pillow. No answer escaped his lips. Maybe Fiddleford would think he went to the bathroom.

"I'm just tryin' to return the favor. I don't want to hurt your feelings.” The door creaked from the weight of he assumed was the other leaning on it. “I want you to be happy. And for that to happen, he has to get out of your life. I'm not tryna be a dick, and I know him leavin' will make you sad too.”  
  
Ford laid in bed breathlessly still, save the uncontrollable shaking of his chest.

“But I hope he never comes back."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JS LIF HGWCO SUNZDERJ
> 
>  
> 
> Marco Diaz - Star Vs The Forces Of Evil  
> Simon Petrikov - Adeventure Time


End file.
